


Won't You Call Me Sweetheart

by aclamclriver (TingedAutumn)



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Eventual Smut, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paterson AU, Prohibition, Slow Burn, era typical violence, wwi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-05-21 22:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TingedAutumn/pseuds/aclamclriver
Summary: arthur paterson is nephew to one of new york’s most ruthless crime bosses,  no matter how miserable it might be.  running illegal alcohol through a town that is on the brink of prohibition,  paterson is interested in only poetry and solitude, until he meets the charming daughter of new york’s upper class.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't let this go so i moved it entirely over to ao3 and hopefully that will make my crying a little less loud. tags to be added and updated, later chapters will be explicit!

tommy scout tells him one day,  chewing on a toothpick with his usual nonchalant grace,  that there’s no way in hell they’ll ever ban booze in new york.

“it’s too much money,”  tommy said,  kicking his heel against the barrel that lies in half-ruined waste by his foot.  he’s an idle boy    hardly a man,  though he has half a foot on paterson,  and the beginnings of a fine mustache that’ll be the envy of every man in the bar.  paterson likes to think tommy comes and goes as he pleases,  drawn to the hubbub and chaos of new york because it presents something to see;  otherwise,  what else could he be doing?  he’d fit better in the south,  where the drawls run thick like molasses on words that slur into the next,  and tom sawyer paints a fence with a lazy idea in mind.  

paterson doesn’t fit in anywhere,  he supposes.  he’s 26 and he still has too many boyish features:  ears lopsided and prominent,  practically made to be pulled and snatched at whenever someone wants his attention.  he’s tall limbs and gangly appearance,  not quite at home in his own body,  built for tripping over and kicking over and generally making a mess when one is hoping for quiet.  he imagines himself as some kind of tragic background character in his own poems,  the one he scrawls on scraps of paper he can snatch away whenever the opportunity presents itself;  not a hero,  and certainly not a villain,  but doomed to observe and see and never find himself within.  

“those old loons have got the wrong idea,”  tommy remarked,  and paterson pulled his attention away from the barrel to follow tommy’s gaze,  falling on the women holding up signs and calling up all sorts of questionable decrees he couldn’t care less about outside the magistrate’s office.  “they wanna ban the booze,  they’re just gonna make it harder to find husbands.  half of ‘em will only get married if their man has his goggles on.”

paterson didn’t answer,  but tommy never seeks one from him,  anyways;  he seems utterly at ease in quiet,  and more often that not,  laughs at his own jokes harder than anyone else.  he is a caricature of comedy,  a mimicry of the jest,  and paterson thinks that one day,  tommy will have turned out to be some kind of imp that wanders from town to town,  no goal in mind but to keep himself vaguely entertained,  and no one will at all be surprised.

“they’ve been protesting nonstop,”  paterson commented,  and tommy shrugged,  a half-hearted gesture that shows nothing but disinterest in the whole affair.

“governor makes too much money from the drinkers to throw ‘em out.  hell,  governor drinks himself quiet every evening.  not to mention the mayor and all the judges.”  he snorted,  pulling his toothpick from his mouth and flicking it into the busy street;  paterson watched as it disappeared under the rickety tires of one of the new automobiles careening by.  “these birds think the drink is to blame for everything.  most be the most boring households in the city!  even the puritans had a sense of humour.”

paterson said nothing.  under his arm,  in crates stacked two by three,  were bottles and bottles of wine and rum that were stamped from halfway around the world,  touring through europe on the back of an assassination that took them all by surprise.  they’re earmarked for the mayor himself,  and he paid an arm and a leg to get them,  right around the same time that he let one of the drys come in and make a stirring speech about the morality of the drink and how the world would be better off without it.

uncle dean was real chuffed to get the order,  but uncle dean was in one of those strange moods where the wind could blow him one direction or another.  some days,  he was happy to throw his arm around paterson’s shoulder,  and offer him friendly advice about life,  and love,  and all the rest of the business;  other days,  paterson was ducking under that same arm,  moving faster than his limbs allowed to get him out of the way of whatever uncle dean happened to be hurling.  there was no real middle ground with dean,  and there was certainly no pleasing him with bad news    paterson had learned to keep his mouth shut when the times were bad,  and keep it shut when things perked up.

they’d been doing this a lot,  lately    grabbing goods from the docks late at night,  when the guard was persuaded to look the other way,  and selling it for a profit out the back,  so to speak.  alcohol might not be prohibited,  but new york was tense,  real tense:  just the other week,  the dryers had managed to get a bar shut down on serving german beer,  and there was a lot of talk about europe,  europe this and that,  europe and the duke who was killed,  and the duke and his country,  and where that all fit into the greater picture.  no one had any real clue what was going on,  but it seemed like germany was on the wrong side of it,  and austria-hungary,  and suddenly things from overseas was very expensive,  and worth more than paterson could imagine earning in his life.

“more than those damn scribbles could earn you,”  uncle dean was sure to remind him,  and paterson had simply pretended that it was a good point,  and he wasn’t working on a poem at that moment,  anyways.

he was always working on a poem.  he had been writing since before he could remember,  watching the world and turning it into prose through eyes that always saw more than he let on.  it was difficult to write when his uncle was always pressing him to run errands,  and it was difficult to run errands because uncle dean was mixed up with crowds that veered towards the unsavoury.  paterson was a good kid,  and he had looked it;  no one took notice of him now,  because how could anyone imagine arthur paterson smuggling booze and goods around in his little beat-up cart,  with his scruffed hat and his dozens of little papers that always seemed to have something scratched across?

he was thinking of that now,  crossing the lane across central to bring a new shipment in that uncle dean had said was more than his head’s worth,  and he better not forget it.  he had a good idea of what was inside,  but hadn’t really bothered to take a good look    the less he knew,  the better.  his head was stuck on his latest verse,  stuck on trying to get it to work;  all the words fit right,  but he had nothing behind it,  no spark,  no jolt.  no muse,  really.  and he was still pondering that when someone in front of him gave a loud cry,  and paterson realized he had been about to hit someone who had accidentally crossed in front of his rickety auto.

he swerved,   _hard,_ nearly upending the whole thing as he sought to avoid hitting what was evidently a woman in a blue jacket and dress;  he didn’t see much more,  as his wheel hit the curb and gave a tremendous screech of annoyance,  causing passerby to jump out of the way,  or snicker openly at the whole affair.  there were a few honks behind him as other cars witnessed the mess,  but other than nearly jolting himself out of his seat,  the damage didn’t seem too bad.  

shit.  the booze.

he leapt from his seat,  ignoring the door entirely,  and as he did,  he realized the dame was still in front of the car,  probably frozen in shock.  despite his worry over the cargo in the trunk,  he couldn’t just leave her there to come to her senses    what if he had grazed her,  or she had twisted an ankle,  or something?  better to make sure she was okay.  so he turned,  opened his mouth,  and  …  found himself speechless.

you hadn’t meant to cross the street just then    you had gotten distracted by something,  found yourself a little too close to the road,  and only realized your predicament when a car came barreling down at you.  luckily your mouth knew better than to freeze like the rest of you had,  and you had let out an unladylike shriek as you came close to being flattened like a pancake on easter sunday.  you had just caught your breath when paterson came out to check on you,  and something about the way you looked    your hair in the sunlight,  maybe,  or how the blue of your dress showed off the high colour in your cheeks    seized his attention and choked all the words right out of him.  

“oh,  my goodness!”  you had said,  highly distressed,  flapping your arms in hopeless anxiety.  “are you alright?  i didn’t mean to step in front of you,  it was an accident and i    and your car!  i am so sorry,  is it very damaged?  does it need any repairs?  are you alright?”

you asked that all in one breath,  your eyes blinking up at him from thick lashes that swept out like a brush of ashes on the hearth,  and paterson had opened his mouth to answer and closed it again when none of his words would surface.  

“are you alright?”  he managed to ask,  only after you had started to inquire at a higher pitch about needing to see a doctor;  you stopped mid-sentence to look at him in puzzlement.

“i  …  oh,  yes,  of course,  you didn’t even hit me.  but are   _you_   alright?  you hit the curb awfully hard!”

“it’s fine,”  paterson said,  having not once looked at the car.  “i’m fine.  it’s fine.  you sure you’re not hurt,  miss  …?”

“[y/n],”  you said,  and you had smiled up at him in such dazzling relief that paterson was immediately struck with the desire to repeat the entire process all over again,  just to see you smile once more.  “and you are mr  …?”

“m’name is arthur,  but all my friends call me paterson,”  he replied,  and he was intimately aware of how silly he sounded,  how stretched out and inelegant he looked compared to your beauty    with a lose twist of hair bobbing on your neck,  and a flush high in your cheeks,  and a pretty white brooch on your chest,  accentuating the line of your throat and the curve of your chin.  

“well,  i am very sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances,  mr paterson,”  you said,  and the way your tongue rolled his name like a sweet had his knees shaking.  “are you very sure the car isn’t damaged?”

“absolutely,”  paterson answered,  quite firmly,  and he leaned one arm down on the door,  as if to prove a point;  it gave an ominous shake underhand.  “uh,  but if you need a ride anywhere  …  you know,  to apologize for having almost run you down  …”

“it was all my own fault,”  you declared,  and you shook your head firmly on the point.  “and i am meeting a friend just across the street,  but thank you very much for the offer.  mr paterson,  if you   _do_ find that the car has been damaged,  please,   _please_   give me a call and i will pay for the damages immediately.  i’m just    ”  you rummaged in your purse for a moment,  and emerged with a thick white card,  printed with fine black lettering.  “my father,  mr.  sullivan,  will pass along your message.  you can find us at this address.   _please,_ mr paterson, if there’s any damage at all,  it really is my fault,  and if you find there were any injuries!”  you pressed the card into his hand,  the fabric of your glove brushing along his skin like an electric shock.  

he had been struck dumb,  only able to offer a garbled  “thank you,”  before you had smiled that dazzling smile again,  and darted back across the street,  making sure to glance both ways before you made the crossing.  he watched after you for several minutes,  until you had disappeared from sight,  and then his gaze fell to the card you had closed in his hands.

_fifth avenue_ ,  beamed up at him in that elegant script,   _barrister and business_.  underneath was the name you had mentioned,  and an address that paterson knew spoke more money and manners than he had hairs on his head.

but god,  he thought,  slumping against the rickety old jalopy that was still parked up on the curb,  much to the annoyance of passerby.  but god,  oh god,  that smile.  if your smile was an arrow,  that he had been struck to the quick,  and was bleeding out in the most wondrous agony.  

that poem he had been irritated with was already forgotten,  replaced with one that emulated your eyes to starlight.  paterson smiled,  clasping your card to his heart.


	2. some of these days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to see you was a chance to glimpse at the divine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what, you didn't see this coming?

“you’re writing that   _crap,  again?”_

uncle dean has a voice like a cannon    it’s never been heard as anything but a shout,  filling up the room with the echoes of his bellows.  his mirth is loud,  and his rage is louder;  paterson has doubts there’s ever been an in-between.  it’s hard to believe that dean has so much business happening  ‘ _on the sly,’_   what with his entire inability to be silent,  but it’s not for paterson to wonder about.  if dean is loud,  he can be tracked,  and thus,  easier to deal with on one’s own terms.

unfortunately,  some days you run plum out of luck.

paterson scrambles upright,  sticking his pencil behind his ear as dean comes stomping forward.  the notebook in his hand snaps shut,  as good as a guilty confession,  and his uncle’s face flushes purple as he snatches it out of paterson’s hand,  waving it about like the murder weapon in a high-trial case.

“morning,  uncle,”  paterson says, remarkably composed.  “was just cataloging the delivery for today    ” 

“don’t give me that!”  though he stands but a foot away,  the bellow from dean blasts out like a siren’s wail;  it is only by rigorous self-training that paterson does not flinch,  though spittle sprays down his jacket,  a foaming dog let loose from his leash.  “you bring back the car looking like   _that_ and you get shortchanged on mavis’ delivery,  don’t look me in the eye and lie to me!”

“you can see we’re three bottles short,”  paterson continues,  his gaze aloft over dean’s shoulder with deliberate nonchalance.  “frankie says it’s probably from bolton’s run    ” 

there’s a grunt of annoyance as dean slaps the notebook back to paterson;  his teeth,  stained yellow from the cigars ever-present on his person,  grind together in a manner that makes paterson think of masons at work.  one day,  there’ll be nothing but powder in dean’s mouth,  and his words will disappear through gaping chasms,  where once there was fangs.

“just shuddup,”  dean growls,  and paterson tucks the notebook back into his pocket,  safely out of anyone’s reach.  “you do nothing but give me lip and break my equipment,  and you spend all day writing that gibberish.  i dunno why i bother to keep you around,  if it weren’t for family.  someday,  pal,  someday i oughta lay you out like i do with my guys on the pier who can’t fill out a brick    ” 

there is,  unfortunately,  nothing to do in these moments but wait for the temper to exhaust itself.  interruptions and protestations only prolong the moment,  and paterson has long learned to tune dean out;  it fades into background noise as he stands there,  his mind twisting and turning down the streets that lead out to fifth avenue,  and a pretty house with white windows,  and daisies planted all along the sills.

his train of thought is interrupted by dean giving the car next to them a kick,  demonstrating his disdain for the damage that still dents in the front hood.  paterson’s not quite sure how much it would cost to fix,  and he rather doubts it would put any significant strain on dean’s wallet,  but spending money on things he can’t luxuriate in has never been dean’s style.  

“    you’re a real pain in the ass!”  dean finishes,  and he flaps angrily though his coat for his favourite cigars.  this is now,  usually,  the end of the discussion,  but paterson waits,  patient as dean rips through his pockets until he’s got his beloved la floridian clamped tight between those motley-tiled teeth. 

“do you need me to run any more,  uncle dean?”  paterson asks,  and his whole body feels stretched taut,  a wire held between two far factions;  the pressure is liable to snap him,  but anticipation keeps him poised,  eager to disappear.  dean grumps in response,  his lips downcurled in a sneer as he inhales a lungful of blue smoke;  it billows from his lips like a discontented dragon.

“just get outta here,”  dean snaps,  and with another kick to the car,  he takes his leave,  with his smokey crown following him like an omnipresent warning.  paterson waits the moments it takes for dean to disappear    they pass like eternities,  and only when dean has disappeared entirely from view does paterson take off running in the opposite direction.

the card you had given him was tucked snug in the pocket over his heart,  its address memorized better than the catechism on a nun’s lips.  he hadn’t even considered showing it to his uncle,  when he rolled the little jallopy into the yard with its busted hood,  and a dopey smile on his lips.  dean had ranted and raved and swung a few good swings,  but not even a wrecking-ball could diminish the flare inside the poet’s chest    not when he had something so wonderful to think about.

it had taken him several days to work up the courage to even pass by your street.  the roads were well-paved and beautifully cared for,  and the houses gleamed with a prestige of wealth that paterson could only ponder at.  in his vest and jacket,  with his hat neat on his head,  paterson hadn’t looked   _entirely_   out of place,  but he certainly didn’t look like he belonged,  either:  he was an outsider who could pass for visiting,  an audience to the wealth,  but never a purveyor.  the women who walked down these streets walked with their heads high,  an air of sophistication on them he couldn’t possibly hope to match;  the men were a different breed altogether.  they hopelessly outclassed men like uncle dean,  he of the kind of slickness you find with oil on water    these men walked like they had a crown somewhere in the closet,  and simply couldn’t be bothered to look for it.  there was an assuredness to their person,  an ease to their gait,  and if he tried for a hundred years,  paterson doubted he’d ever be able to emulate it.

this is where you came from    the world in which you belonged.  perfect for poetry,  he thinks now,  and perfect for the fairytales:  a princess in splendor,  and her fair knight who pens his odes.  that is,  in fact,  all he   _has_ been able to do:  since your original meeting,  paterson hasn’t seen you since.  he’s lingered on the street,  and he’s hesitated at the door a thousand times,  but not once has he glimpsed,  or knocked,  or received a sign that urged him forward.

for now,  all he can do is stare up at the windows,  and wonder which is yours.

he pauses in his walk,  thumbing at his notebook to pencil in the thought,  when the sound of a door opening seizes his attention.  his head snaps up,  but he is not rewarded with your smile   **(**    _god,_ that smile   **)**.  instead,  an older gentleman,  of about fifty years,  with dark hair meticulously smoothed back,  and a rather magnificent mustache,  appears before him.  the press of his suit is immaculate;  the pocket-watch that gleams on his chest alone would have made uncle dean salivate.  his expression is stern,  entirely without your good humour,  but there is something similar in the cut of his jaw,  the set of his eyes.  

this was,  then,  your father.

to be out of his element is,  contrarily,  quite in his element all together,  but paterson is suddenly overcome with trepidation.  his foolish,  romantic notions of seeing you again seem paltry and silly,  now    a little boy in the schoolyard,  waiting for his infatuated moments.  you had offered him a kindness in promising to fix the car,  and he had returned the gesture with pacing outside your home,  skulking like a sot.  selfish.  unbecoming.  classless.

but even as he is shamed to the bone with the situation,  the expansive man coming down the walk spots him,  his brow twitching slightly in either surprise or irritation    quite likely both.  he halts,  his hands resting inquisitively upon his hips,  and affixes paterson with a stare that has the poet humbled to the floor.

“you!  yes,  you!  you are on private property!”

he feels himself shrink from the commanding tone,  embarrassment swallowing him from the inside;  his spine seems to have melted into insubstantial mush.  mouth dry,  paterson scrambles for words that will justify his place here,  knowing quite well that nothing really will.

“i’m  ...  i’m sorry,  sir.  i’ve just gotten myself a bit lost.”

lying is,  after all,  a form of poetry in itself.

“lost?”  there is something distinctly hawkish about this man    the jutting edge of nose and chin give him a solid,  substantial profile,  and his eyebrows furrow deep over eyes that burrow paterson to the quick.  he imagines his bones like stories,  with secrets etched into each one:  those eyes might as well be reading every story.  “lost how?  where are you going?”

“wilkes,  sir.”  it’s the first name he can think of,  pulled from a rant his uncle had been making the other day.  “i was,  uh,  contacted about a job.  a driving job.  wilkes was looking for a driver.”

once more,  an inquisitive sweep of the eyes,  a ponderous examination made in the space of a second.  suspicion is gone,  replaced with something like faint irritation,  an irking without name.  “wilkes is hiring a driver?  a word to the wise,  young man,  but robert wilkes is not an employer anyone of respectability should pursue.”

paterson doesn’t disagree,  but that is entirely how he knows the name in the first place.

“you’d best be on your way,  then,”  the inquisitor concludes,  dismissal oozing from his tone,  and paterson sees his opportunity closing on him like a steel door.

“it’s just    !”  his voice is fueled almost entirely by desperation    too loud,  too loud,  too unseemly.  “it’s my  ...  my mother.”  words at random,  plucked straight from the heartstrings of any warbling story in the newspaper.  “i need the money to keep her well.  she’s sick    you know that cough,  the one that swept in through from florida,  it’s been bothering her for weeks now,  and her doctor is worried    ” 

“i am sorry to hear that,”  the man replies,  and though he does not   _look_   necessarily sorry,  his tone does seem a smidge softer.  “but surely there are other places hiring.  wilkes will only lead you astray.  i should know,  having worked with him in the past.”  the scowl that flashes across his face rents his expression to one of a predator denied its catch.  

“you don’t know anyone hiring a driver,  then?”  he clings to his hope,  so rapidly dissipating in his hands.

“i do not.”  and that’s it gone,  then    no chance of running into you here,  and no chance seeing you on   _his_ side of the tracks.  the inquisitor rubs at his chin,  taking in the sight of slumped shoulders,  and down-turned eyes,  and comes to a different conclusion.  “how good are you with your hands?”

“i’ve done labour before,  sir.”

“manuel?  construction?”

“all sorts.”  he’s not sure where this line is headed,  but it is not dismissal;  paterson clings to it now.  “whatever i’m needed to do.”

the inquisitor seizes him up:  tall and lanky;  a little scrawny,  if facts are facts.  good shoes,  good shirt,  if not the kind that one would find on his own back.  clean face,  earnest eyes.  harmless.  honest-seeming.

“alright,”  he decides,  with a short nod of his head.  “i need a man to do the general maintenance of the estate.  yard work.  heavy lifting.  well-care,  and so forth.  i’ll give you eight dollars a week.  i expect you here prompt and ready.  what’s your name,  son?”

“arthur,  sir,”  he says,  and the emotion bubbling in his chest feels too great to be contained.  “arthur paterson.”


	3. i'll say she does

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> manners maketh the man.

he does not tell uncle about the job.

there are some things,  paterson thinks,  that are too private:  too precious.  things one does not wish to profane with the perfidious.  some people in this world think that the more value they obtain,  the more their own increases,  but they’re wrong – they merely make themselves look cheaper in comparison.  men like uncle dean knew vulgarity,  and hostility,  and crassness;  they didn’t belong on these streets,  in this world,  where the wealthy lived like demure kings,  their riches hinted at in the clean shape of their homes,  the sharp cut of their clothes. 

of course,  neither did paterson.

he wants to see you again.  that’s all:  just one glimpse,  and he’ll be content.  he wouldn’t even need to talk – just once glance,  one last lingering look,  and he can return to the world he belongs to.  he knows he’s not worthy to even stare at your shoes,  but he can’t help himself:  just like the dying wish to savour one last day,  so too does paterson long for one last look.  he does not delude himself into imagining anything more,  though his poetry hints at a wish for the romantic.  he knows better.  he is arthur paterson,  nephew to dean paterson,  whose home resides far off the tracks,  where the water runs foul:  he won’t pollute your stream.

he does his deliveries in record time,  and slips off the next morning before anyone can ask him any questions;  he doesn’t even take the car.  the fish market is just barely starting to awaken,  with sailors coming into port,  complaining about their catch,  and stalls unfolding from their fragile stacks.  he bypasses the fishwives,  who stretch and yawn in the dim morning light,  and avoids the market entirely,  for fear of someone calling him over and asking a favour – dean has far too many buyers in the tiny storefronts,  whose back entrance hides a secret or too.  by the time he reaches the clean streets of fifth avenue,  the sun is chasing away the damp morning mist,  and paterson’s heart is skipping a frantic,  excited beat in his chest. 

sullivan, as he says he is to be called,  does not keep him waiting.  he is just coming out the door when paterson reaches the gate,  and he gives a small,  approving nod at the young man’s appearance.  “punctuality is key,”  is the only greeting given,  before he is showing paterson the tour of the grounds,  pointing out various tasks that will need to be addressed.   

unlike most of the mansions on fifth avenue,  mr.  sullivan and family seemed to have settled for a more modest abode,  and a much wider lawn.  the house is grand,  to be sure – paterson knows he’s never stepped foot in anything like it – but its rich,  rolling grass,  thick oak trees,  and little fish pond,  are at odds with the rather stark,  foreboding  buildings surrounding it.  to the left of the main entrance,  mr.  sullivan points out a pretty greenhouse and porch,  to which paterson is only to go in by direct request;  to the right of the entrance,  the shack that holds tools and other various equipment is hidden from view by a pretty apple tree. 

“our caretaker,  mr.  fields,  was responsible for putting all of this in,”  mr.  sullivan remarks,  watching the fish flit about in the pond.  “regrettably,  he did decide to move on just a few weeks ago – i believe he resettled in virginia,  to be closer to his family.  all the same,  he did a marvelous job,  so you won’t have any mistakes to correct,  or additional things to add in – just maintain the premises.  everything you need is in the storage shed,  and if you require anything in particular,  just leave a note with mrs.  wallace,  the maid,  and she’ll deliver it to me promptly.  now,  the inside  –“

paterson’s head,  which was spinning quite freely by this point,  began a full-tilt rotation in the front hall.  the massive central staircase,  which dominated the entry-way,  was lined with marble railings,  ascending up to the second floor in a triumph of american architecture.  the foyer was decorated with stern marble busts,  and paintings of an antique quality;  spaced between were portraits of rather serious looking figures who appeared to be relatives.  vases of flowers dotted the otherwise sleek presentation,  and various wooden doors marched off in all directions,  hinting at a treasure-trove of rooms and objects therein. 

you could have been in any one of them.

and here he was, standing in your  _home,_ marauding as a  _caretaker_.  his ears went red with the gravity of the situation,  with the realization that he had accepted a position for which he had lied to get into – conned his way into your home!  what would happen when you  _did_   see him:  surely you would be horrified at his little ruse?  _terrified,_ more likely:  a complete stranger you had only seen  _once,_ lying to get close to you!  what on  _earth_ had he been thinking!

beside him,  mr.  sullivan was still speaking,  surveying his home with a kind of solemn air one might expect from a king looking over his subjects.  “mrs.  wallace handles the general cleanliness of the house,  and we do have another junior maid to help out around the season,”  he remarked,  gesturing expansively.  “you will therefore only be required for any repairs or general maintenance which mrs.  wallace cannot preform.  this will be restricted to downstairs,  of course,  unless strictly requested otherwise – my daughter’s room is on the second floor,  and it would not be proper to have a strange man wandering about the landing.” 

_my daughter_.  paterson’s mouth suddenly went dry,  his heart taking an inadvertent leap into his throat.  “of – of course.  i understand.”

“any questions?”

“n-no,  sir.”

“you’ll be wanting to know about payment,  i presume.”  mr.  sullivan did not sound much like he was presuming,  so much as stating a fact.

“i  …”  now,  if ever,  was the time to come clean:  to admit he had made the whole thing up,  on a foolhardy venture to glimpse a woman he had nearly run over with his car.  he didn’t belong here:  he certainly didn’t have the right to pretend.  litter did not belong on fifth avenue.  “i – i hadn’t actually thought of it,  sir.”

sullivan regarded him for a long moment – his piercing brown eyes, just as they had the other day,  seemed to unpack paterson from the inside,  out.  his glasses,  perched on a sharp nose,  glinted slightly in the light as he tilted his head,  as if to better examine the young man sweating profusely before him. 

“I believe we settled on eight dollars a week,  to be paid each week,”  he said at last.  “i am in the habit of treating my employees fairly,  mr.  paterson.  you will receive a christmas bonus,  and you are free to take your meals here,  so long as you work throughout the day.  money,  however,  will only be of so much value to you.  i can quite fairly say that i am well-regarded by my peers in my business.  my regard passes down to those who work for me.  If you put your absolute effort into this job,  i can assure you of promotion within a few years.  accounting.  banking.  legal,  perhaps.  money does not make the man,  mr.  paterson.  i will be happy to provide you with the tools that  _do._ ”

unbidden,  a thought:  of himself,  dressed in a suit as sharp and smart as mr.  sullivan’s,  with his shoes of good leather,  and his home in a place where the shrieks of the unruly did not tell the time,  and  _you_.  you,  with your arm in his,  smiling up at him:  and by god,  that smile! 

“it sounds perfect,  mr.  sullivan,”  he said at last,  with the words falling sincere from his lips.  “shall i start now?”

* * *

mrs.  wallace,  as it turned out,  was a rather brisk woman of some fifty years,  with her hair in a steely grey bun,  and a rather sharp spoon. 

why she had a spoon,  paterson had yet to determine.  the kitchen already had a cook – a friendly greek chap by the name of alec,  who enthused on what a beautiful country america was at every opportunity.  mrs.  wallace,  as the senior staff member,  was the head maid in the most basic of regards  **(**   though she preferred to be considered the housekeeper,  and general house authority  **)**.  she had been with the sullivan’s for several years,  it seemed,  and had practically helped raise you from the nursery – though paterson couldn’t get much more information than that out of her,  since she was so busy smacking his hands with that blasted spoon.  he supposed she  _did_ come off a bit motherly,  if mothers had the tendency to rap their children over the knuckle for moving something they weren’t supposed to.  he wasn’t too sure on that regard.

like mr.  sullivan,  she had a high regard for punctuality,  and seemed to find paterson’s lanky shape rather distressing – she was frequently sending him down to the kitchen to get something to eat.  particular and stubborn,  she ran the home with an iron fist,  pointing out various tics and tacs that needed to be addressed.  by sheer luck, the run of it was fairly straight-forward:  a loose floorboard,  or a scrape on the furniture that needed to be buffed out.  paterson spent the first few days learning the layout of the house,  and hiding his hands in his sleeves whenever he heard mrs.  wallace coming – he’d return home,  exhausted,  and fall asleep for a few hours,  only to return and make any deliveries uncle dean required to be run.  with business steady,  dean was a bit more cheerful,  and thus not as inclined to prod into his nephew’s business;  it made slipping away all the easier.

paterson supposed he  _should_   be exhausted,  but the thrill of potentially seeing you kept him wide-awake throughout the day.  the house,  too,  was invigorating – never before had paterson been somewhere so clean and decorous,  where the wealth was displayed without glitz or gaudy trappings.  it smelled frequently of lilacs,  ink,  and leather,  and the kitchen was always worth a whiff when he passed by.  he did not often see mr.  sullivan,  who seemed to work a number of hours away from home each day:  that was a little reassuring.  the one person he  _longed_   to see,  however,  he had not yet managed to.

you led a busy social life,  from what he had gathered:  society luncheons and the like.  your father was quite protective,  and did not enjoy you cavorting about doing much else.  you were involved in some charity,  and mrs.  wallace mentioned something about the church,  but by and large,  paterson hadn’t caught so much as a hint of you in his week working,  and he was starting to despair he ever would.

it was on the second monday of the job that his luck changed   **(**  though it started,  again,  with that damn spoon  **)**.  having inadvertently startled mrs.  wallace as he came into the kitchen for some tea,  he had been told  **(**   nursing some rather sore hands  **)**   that the greenhouse lounge was in need of some looking at.  “it’s that damn leak again,  i’ll give you anything,”  mrs. wallace declared,  pocketing her weapon with a rather ferocious gleam in her eye. 

paterson had been quite quick to scurry away before she could extrapolate.

the greenhouse was,  in actuality,  not so much a greenhouse as a side room made entirely of glass.  it was decorated with a bountiful array of flowers and garlands,  and the furniture was comfortable,  a cozy mismash of chaise’s and padded footstools.  there was a small library on one side of the room,  and a painting easel on the other,  surrounded by blank canvases,  and art supplies.  paterson,  who had not yet entered this room,  was taken aback by the lush prettiness of it all,  and thus,  did not immediately realize he was not alone.

standing before the easel,  this time in a pretty dress of blushed pink,  you were carefully adding texture to what paterson could discern were wings.  the rest of the portrait was obscured by your figure,  which paterson deliberately forced himself to avoid raking over with his eyes.  your hair was piled atop your head in an inelegant bun that showed off the sharp curvature of your neck;  one loose curl,  which had fallen upon your shoulder,  struck paterson with the desire to wind it ‘round his finger. 

he couldn’t stand here gawking forever,  though.  clearing his throat,  he pressed his shaking hands behind his back,  trying to look relaxed and at-home in your abode – a task made harder by accidentally startling you.

“oh!”  your voice was just the same as he remembered – warm and inviting,  with a little lilt that did not sound at all like the new york accent paterson was familiar with.  you placed your palette on a little table,  brushing your hands off on your skirt,  and turned to smile up at him – and he watched with dread as the welcoming expression on your face turned to one of confusion,  and then recognition.

_well,_ he thought resignedly,  _she has every right to be angry –_

“mr.  paterson!”  you cried out,  one hand fluttering over your heart.  “it’s so good to see you again!  are you feeling well?  oh,  i’ve been thinking about you ever since we met,  please,  come in –“

well,  with a sentiment like  _that,_ he could at least die happily.

“i didn’t mean to startle you,”  he said at last,  rather belatedly,  and you blinked up at him.  “i,  er  …  i mean,  just now.  but also with  …  well,  it’s a bit of a long story,  but the long and short of it is  -“

“my father offered you a job,”  you finished,  and he was surprised to see you were smiling.  “yes,  papa told me.  i didn’t know he had hired  _you_ ,  though!  i didn’t even know you had applied!”

“i didn’t,”  paterson said,  and then hastily added,  “apply.  er,  that is to say,  i didn’t mean to.  i was,  uh,  actually coming by to check on you,  and started,  erm  …  chatting,  with your father – mr.  sullivan,  that is.  and the subject of work came up,  and,  well,  he offered me a job.  i didn’t mention the accident because i didn’t want you to think that was what all this was for.”

“no,  of course not,”  you replied,  and your smile brightened even further;  paterson found himself struck rather speechless.  “i wanted to come and check on  _you,_ as it were,  but i had no idea where to start.  i was bombarding poor ginny for news all week,  hoping you’d have left a message.  ginny – well,  mrs.  wallace,  i suppose you call her,  she was quite tired of my questions by the end of it.  i suppose she didn’t think you were the same paterson!”

“it’s a very common name,”  paterson said modestly,  though he had never actually met an unrelated paterson in his life.

“but you’re our caretaker!”  you bounced back on the heels of your feet,  clasping your hands together in undisguised delight,  and the sight of it nearly sends him to his knees.  to make you so happy with just his presence -!  “that’s wonderful,  really – now we can get to know each other!  i’m in desperate need of a friend – everyone i know is so serious and stuffy!  do you consider yourself an honest man,  mr.  paterson?”

_HA._

“very,”  paterson replied,  “or,  rather – i don’t shout things out unsolicited,  but i will always be honest when i’m called to be.”

“exactly what i wanted to hear.”  the look you give him is like a co-conspirator – like a  _secret_.  he finds his mouth is dry again as you gesture him inside your little room,  where the plants bloom on the walls.  “you can come in here whenever you like,  mr.  paterson – or i suppose you wanted me to call you paterson?  whenever you need a respite,  or if you’d like to talk.  and you can call me  [y/n],  of course!  do you paint at all, by any chance?”

“no,  but i  …  i do write.  poetry.”

the look you give him is your brightest yet – interest and genuine excitement.  “poetry!  will you let me read one,  some day?”

“er,  well –“  _it’s only that most of it from the last two weeks have been about you_.

“i understand if you’d rather not!”  he catches your gaze,  the comforting gesture of your hands,  and is suddenly nearly overcome with the desire to seize your hands in his,  and cover your face in placating kisses.  “art is a very private thing.  but i  _do_ want you to be comfortable here,  paterson.  not just because i ran you off the road.”

“you really didn’t!”  he protests,  and the smile that threatens to bloom across his face is practically saturated in warmth.  “i didn’t have my eyes on the road,  is all –“

“MR.  PATERSON!”

the both of you duck,  instantly cowed by the trumpeting shout that seems to echo through the floorboards.  paterson,  nearly hunched by the door,  gives you a quick,  panic-stricken look.

“mrs.  wallace!”

“i’ll cover for you,”  you whisper,  flapping your hands gently towards the door.  “don’t worry,  just turn left and it’ll roundabout into the kitchens!  i’ll keep her busy.  she’ll calm down in a bit,  and we can talk again.  hurry!”

as you passed him to pry open the door,  the scent of lilac suddenly permeated his senses;  for a moment,  it was if he had been knocked to the floor,  so off-centre was his brain.  only when he feels you tugging gently on his arm does he immediately slip past you,  careful to keep his gaze ahead,  and not on the turn of your head as you check for angry housekeepers.

“remember,  straight to the left,”  you whisper.  “she doesn’t like coming up that way.  you’ll be fine from there.  oh,  but i am so glad to have met you,  paterson!”


	4. i'm falling in love with someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> friends confide in each other, or so he has been told.

“just where the hell are you going?”

uncle dean considers himself a fair fellow.  more than fair,  really:  he’s been downright   _generous_   to paterson,  practically spoils the kid   _rotten_.  sure,  sure,  the kid is family,  but even so,  no one would have blamed dean for throwing the kid a bone and leaving him to gnaw in the corner.  no,  dean threw him more than a bone:  he set the kid up with a job,  with a   _future_.  folks in the pew can bellyache all they want – there's no work in the world as secure as the one selling booze.  dean’s been around the block his own fair share of times,  and he knows his way around those puritans hollering and hooting about the devil in the drink;  half of them are in the bag when they get home,  anyways.  it’s besides the point,  all the same – they can hoot,  and holler,  and twist themselves into knots all they want;  booze ain’t going nowhere.  couple of bucks in your pocket,  and that’s a real blessing nowadays,  if only he could find his   _driver_.

paterson stops dead in his tracks at uncle dean’s voice,  caught guilty like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.  years of living under dean’s roof,  and the kid still hasn’t learned a damn thing:  always running off with his little notebook and his little fairytales,  hauling hootch like it's some kind of   _chore_ _._ most folks with kids this long in the business,  they’re looking to set them up with something solid,  something   _substantial:_ most kids are learning the ropes of this trade.  not paterson,  though:  the one job he has is to deliver the goods,  and he even managed to mess   _that_   up  (and dean thinks again,  about the busted car,  and how that’s coming out of his own pocket to fix,  and he tenses up all over again.)

“i said,  where in the hell are you goin’?” he emphasizes his words with a sharp jab,  pressing hard into paterson’s shoulder.  if ever there was a kid in the world who could use some muscle on his frame (and a fair beating,  to test it all out),  it would be his own nephew.  the kid is all height,  all bone;  prop him up outside,  and he could scare away the crows.  dean wants a strapping man,  strong enough to lift three barrels off the docks without an issue:  he gets a little twig who keeps sneaking off to do who knows   _what_.  “don’t make me repeat myself,  ya lazy bum -”

“morning,  uncle,”  paterson says,  utterly unperturbed by dean’s foul mood.  he turns,  just enough to give dean the luxury of seeing his face,  and his expression is one of casual calm:  kid is as cool as a cucumber,  as different from dean in temperament as he is in build.  “i was just going to check out the town.  see if there’s any action happening.”

“you couldn’t handle action if it came up and robbed you blind.”  dean hurls the words like knives,  but gets nothing for his trouble in return:  paterson blinks down at him like a some kind of bird,  observing the skies with scarce a concern.  “you gotta lot of nerve sneaking off when the work isn’t even done -”

“not sneaking off,  uncle,  never,”  paterson remarks,  with utmost civility.  “you can check for yourself – crates put away,  barrels marked,  stock recorded.  swept out the garage and did a sweep of the docks.  records are with miss quill,  and the profits are on your desk.  even stacked the papers.”

a long,  drawn-out silence follows.  it seems a century later when dean grunts,  shoving his hand into his coat-pocket for his trusty cigars.  “you better not be lying,  boy.”

“you can see for yourself,  uncle.”  such a portrait of ease,  with his hands in his pockets – it's like the boy has done nothing wrong in his life. 

and if he had the time to,  he would – but there’s the delivery to go over,  and the money to count,  and he’s got an appointment down at old town bar to see just how good their scotch   _is_  -and by the time he’s made up his mind to cut paterson loose, the kid has spotted his opportunity and made a run for it.

“you better be back in time for delivery!”  dean bellows down after him,  but he might as well be talking to bricks – paterson has one thing on his mind now,  and it Isn't his uncle’s contraband business.

he ought to be exhausted – he's slept maybe ten hours this week alone,  caught in snatched moments of rest.  yet with the sound of his shoes clamouring against the sidewalk,  the catch of the morning breeze on his face:  paterson has never felt more awake,  more eager,  more   _alive_.  out of the grime,  the grim and the dark,  into the bright,  crisp,  clean autumn day,  and closer – closer and closer,  to you.

his greatest fear was that you would tire of him - for one visit hadn’t been enough to sate his longing.  he practically flew through his work that day,  exhilarated from your company.  mrs. wallace had to nearly drag him out by the ear when he was finished,  and it felt like the door had scarcely closed before he was knocking on it again.  he finished his work for dean in the evening,  and he did it as fair as he could,  but his days were devoted entirely to you.

because you hadn’t tired of him:  he would barely have a foot in the door before you were dashing up,  hauling him into your study under the pretext of having paterson  “fix the lighting.”  together,  you’d sit and discuss whatever came to mind;  once,  on a day that poured rain like a weeping sea,  paterson had read aloud to you some of his favourite poems,  as you sat and sketched.  when he went home for the evening,  you tucked the drawings in his pocket,  and thanked him for the wonderful afternoon;  his hand tingles from your touch,  long after you had parted.

perhaps it was to be expected,  that the reality of you could not live up to the dream:  after all,  he had only met you the once when he decided to feign a career as a caretaker.  and yet  –  somehow  –  reality had bowed down to expectations,  and come out stronger.  paterson had been right to think of you as alluring and charming,  but it was so much more:  the sense of grace and dignity;  the humour;  the wit;  the genuine care evident in every word you spoke.  soon enough,  even the way you curled your hand over your mouth to stifle your giggles was enough to have him besotted.

but paterson was still a caretaker,  and you were still a lady,  and mrs. wallace was the dragon in-between.  for every five minutes he could snatch with you,  there were hours more he spent without.  some days,  all paterson could steal was a smile through the doorway as he was hurrying past,  his chest tight from the way you brightened at his presence.  the days he could stop and inquire about your afternoon were ones he was learning to cherish.

your father was a different story.  though paterson saw him only rarely,  his very presence was enough to shake the poet’s nerves down to the bone.  there was something about his eyes – they possessed a sharpness that made paterson feel as if he was being examined through every nerve,  and all his lies would come tumbling out in the aftermath.  mr. sullivan   **(** or  _sir,_ as paterson was rapidly beginning to think of him  **)**  worked long hours out of the house,  but his presence was keen in every crevice  –  even mrs. wallace obeyed the letter of his law.

by the time paterson reached your home,  the sun was fully out,  and he was perspiring slightly from the rush of his run.  he slipped inside without fuss,  heading straight for the servant’s quarters,  where he hung up his jacket and hat;  from there,  he angled himself towards the kitchen,  where alec was humming merrily to himself as he chopped vegetables,  where he snitched the biscuits laid out for the afternoon tea.  alec,  for all his broken english,  was a fairly cheerful fellow,  and seemed to find paterson’s antics of enormous amusement:  he whistled in greeting as paterson took his route past the library.

he had expected to putter about for some time before he saw you,  but to his immense delight,  paterson spied you standing by the far stacks,  right in his line of sight.  your dress – a soft peach,  today – seemed to catch the rays of the sun filtering weakly through the window,  turning your whole figure into a kind of gleaming angel.  you seemed busy with whatever it was in your hands,  and it was only when paterson knocked quietly on the door that you finally looked up,  smiling in recognition.

“paterson!  good morning.  i hope you’ve had a chance to take some breakfast?”

“good morning,”  paterson replied,  closing the door behind him with a quick glance out for mrs. wallace.  “brought you some biscuits.  alec just put them out.”

as paterson held out the proffered biscuit,  he was finally able to see what you were holding in your hands.  it was a beautifully embossed little nursery book:  hardly bigger than your finger,  and absolutely dwarfed by paterson’s own hand.  the curling gold script on the front was faded slightly with age,  but he could make out the word  “nursery”  easily enough,  and two miniature sheep dancing merrily on the cover.

“i found it just a moment ago,”  you said after a moment,  realizing where paterson’s gaze had fallen.  “it gave me quite a turn down memory lane!  tell me,  paterson,  do you have brothers or sisters?”

it was,  by far,  the most direct question you had asked of him so far,  and paterson hesitated on the answer.  the truth,  of course,  was  _no:_ he had been an only child,  and dean didn’t have any children of his own.  despite that,  telling the truth might invite further questions,  which might involve paterson letting slip something   _disfavourable_.  

“no,”  he said at last,  lips twisted slightly as he weighed his words as carefully as he dared.  “no,  it was just me growing up,  really.”

he watched your brows furrow slightly,  as you took in his words;  to his relief,  you seemed to take the meaning perfectly.  “i’m sorry.  it must have been quite lonely.”

“and you?  did you ever want a sibling?”

of course,  the words are hardly out of his mouth,  before he realizes why you might be here alone,  holding a children’s book.

you smile at this way paterson’s mouth twists in embarrassment,  fingers briefly encircling his wrist in a gentle grasp.  “it’s a perfectly fine question,  arthur,  really.  yes,  i've wanted a sibling.  ten years ago,  my mama gave birth to a little girl,  and we called her edith.  she and mama got sick a few days later,  and passed away.  papa never remarried.”

“i’m sorry.”  the words hardly feel adequate;  the weight of them seem to press down on his shoulders until he is almost sunk into the ground.  beside him,  you stand,  perfectly composed – he can feel the brush of your fingers against his wrist,  close to the heartbeat you have every control of.

“it is what it is,”  you say in response,  and you slide the book carefully back onto its shelves.  “i didn’t mean to burden you with my old griefs.”

“they aren’t a burden -”  it comes out a rush,  words tripping over themselves in his hurry to expel them.  “i like hearing - i mean,  not like,  but i - i want to hear.  about you.  about your thoughts.  even if they’re sad.  they’re not a burden … you’re not a burden to me.”

and he thinks,  again,  of that afternoon drive,  where he was struggling to fit words into ways they never wanted to be:  how you stepped out of the sunlight,  and suddenly,  everything was changed.  

your grip shifts;  the tips of your fingers graze against his own,  as if in longing to be clasped together.  “you know,  i've never told anyone that,”  you say at last;  your gaze doesn’t waver from paterson’s own.  “about my mama,  and edith.  thank you  …  for listening.”

“thank you for telling me,”  paterson replies,  and he carefully,  carefully,  closes his hand around your own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> better late than never?


End file.
